


In Full Bloom

by teacuphuman



Series: Trope Bingo Card 2018 [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/F, Pregnancy, Rare Pairings, Vaginal Fingering, strangers on a train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 14:56:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15293952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: She’s a vision of fertile efflorescence and she shouldn’t be here alone. She should be wrapped in the arms of someone who adores her. Who is just as in love with her as with the life she’s creating.





	In Full Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for the Pregnancy/Mpreg square on my Inceptiversary Trope Bingo Card. I've never written explicit Ari/Mal before and it's been years since I've written F/F, so I hope it's okay! French translations in the end notes.

I’m waiting for the last train out of Montpellier when I see her. At first she’s just another pretty face, her accent melodical and quick as she speaks to someone on her phone. But then her voice hitches and I notice the smudges around her eyes. There’s a mascara stained handkerchief in her hand and a defeated slump to her shoulders that wars with the dark beauty of her aura.

 

She angles her face away from the crowd and her voice turns low and harsh to whomever is on the other end of the call. Her dark hair shields her from my prying eyes, the soft waves brushing the straps of her flowered summer dress, her jacket folded neatly over her purse, removed in the heat that is still thick and sticky on our skin despite the late hour. The dress is well fitted in the bodice, her breasts heavy and full over the lush curve of her belly. The fabric is loose over the bump but the woman’s hand is pressed to the underside, outlining her expanding silhouette. 

 

She’s a vision of fertile efflorescence and she shouldn’t be here alone. She should be wrapped in the arms of someone who adores her. Who is just as in love with her as with the life she’s creating.

 

“Il ne la quittera pas.” She sounds angry and tired, but not surprised.

 

Her ticket declares her destination as Paris, the same as mine, and I wander away, not wanting to intrude more than I already have. The train is due any minute and I’ll have the three and a half hour ride to watch over her.

 

By the time the train pulls away from the platform I’ve settled in a rear facing seat two rows up from the woman’s. She faces forward along the aisle, feet propped up on the seat across from her, hands wrapped around a book she balances on her belly. I settle into my window view and watch the sun go down over the hills outside the city. The air inside the train clings to the salt of the Mediterranean like the last vestiges of a lover’s perfume on your pillow and I glance at the woman, wondering what her hair would smell like in the sun. 

 

She shifts in her seat and looks up, her smile small but sweet when she catches me looking, before adjusting her position and laying the book flat on her stomach. The train tilts into a corner and the book slips with the movement. She tries to catch it, but it slips through her manicured fingers as the vibrations increase and her eyes flutter closed, a soft  _ oh _ tumbling from her lips.

 

I hurry forward, going down on one knee to fetch the book and offering it to her with a smile of my own. My skin buzzes when our fingers touch and she laughs, bright and happy, as her hand presses back against the force inside her belly. She must read the question in my face because she takes my hand and places it carefully on one side of the swell, her fingers firm and warm against my own. Waiting.

 

She hums in satisfaction when the push comes, the small lump of life within her pressing against my hand, strong and quick; intimate in a new and surprising way. I’ve never had the desire to carry despite my ability to, but suddenly I want to keep her like this, plump, and radiant, and magical, for as long as I can. 

 

She insists I sit with her, saying young women shouldn’t be alone on trains this late at night, and we chat companionably about what awaits us in Paris. I tell her of my studies, the thesis waiting impatiently on my laptop and in my mind. She’s surprised at my age, at the success I’ve already found. She tells me the thoughts in my mind are too serious for someone so young. She tells me about the baby’s father without prompting. A man she didn’t know was married who now refuses to lift a hand to help.

 

“Connard,” she spits and I laugh, staring at her belly. She joins in and takes my hand in hers, happy to have found a friend.

 

Her fingers squeeze mine as we speed through another turn, a breath stuttering out of her mouth as her skin flushes. She waves off my concerns with a laugh, but when it happens again a moment later, she accepts my rolled up jacket as a pillow and lets me place it against her lower back. 

 

She whines a little the next time, lowering her feet from the cushion of the other seat. She laughs but the flush has spread down her neck and her bottom lip shakes as she sucks in air. 

 

The extra blood that she carries for the baby, she explains, is fed to her uterus and surrounding areas, making everything more sensitive and full. Her hand slips down her belly and between her legs.

 

“Comme une fleur,” she whispers. “En pleine floraison.”

 

My own blood is pumping so fast I can barely hear the train and I want to follow her hand. Feel for myself where her petals are ripe and full. 

 

Her giggle fades and her eyes drop to my hands when she catches me staring at where her fingers have disappeared.

 

“Le train. Les vibrations, elles ... me font étinceler.” She removes her hand but leans closer to me, her hair brushing my cheek. I move slowly, giving her the time and space to stop me, but she just bites her lip and lays her head on my shoulder.

 

Her belly is firm in a way that defies reality, the fabric smooth under my hand as I follow the path she laid. Her dress disappears into the vee of her thighs, dark and warm as I dip my fingers in and stroke where the material is pressed against her body. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t move as I feel my way around her. She’s right, she’s plump and moist, my fingers nudging against her as the train corners and she moans in my ear.

 

I reach across the seat for her jacket, barely covering her before my hand is under her dress. She bites her lip when my fingers slip under the edge of her culotte and I gasp at the heat that greets me. Her lips are swollen and open and she arches into my hand, humming when I rub over her opening. Slick cascades over my fingers at the slightest pressure and I waste no time spreading it around, exploring all her softest places while she grips the armrest and grinds into her seat.

 

Her voice is breathy and her accent curves beautifully around the curses that make it past her teeth. She grows wetter the more I explore and I’m wet to my wrist by the time I rub the pad of my thumb against her clit. She nearly comes off the seat, letting out a groan that makes me thank the gods for mostly empty night trains. Her teeth sink into my shirt as I work, teasing her lips before slipping a finger into the tight clench of her.

 

I drag her leg over mine, adjusting the jacket so her lap is covered, and thrust in another finger. She relaxes against me, sighing contently as I press at her inner walls. I can see a curve in the track ahead of us and I kiss her temple, telling her it’s time. I speed up as we grow close, making her squirm and grab my thigh for leverage.

 

As the train starts into the bend, I slip out, centering my attention on her clit. It’s full and responsive, and the vibrations of the train have her trembling so hard I have to kiss her to stop her teeth from clacking together. My tongue slicks across hers and she gasps. I rub harder, pinning her in place while she chases her release, and swallow the beautiful sounds she makes.

 

She comes with a whimper, every muscle in her body going taut until I can’t tell if it’s her or the train that’s shaking harder. Her fingers have left bruises on my thigh and her teeth have drawn blood on my lips, but I’ve never felt more thankful to be alive. Her hair is plastered to her neck with sweat and the smudges under her eyes are twice what they were before, and she’s still the most perfect creature I’ve ever seen. 

 

She winces when I take my hand away, over sensitive and twice as swollen as before, but she smiles up at me and kisses my neck, not even letting me wipe my hand before she pulls my arm around her and settles into my side. My other hand strokes over the perfect roundness of her stomach and when the baby kicks she laughs and asks me what I’m doing with the rest of my life.

**Author's Note:**

> Il ne la quittera pas - He won’t leave her  
> Connard - Bastard  
> Comme une fleur en pleine floraison - Like a flower in full bloom  
> Le train. Les vibrations, elles ... me font étinceler - The train. The vibrations, they make me spark


End file.
